"Does it even matter?"

"Of course it matters," Jonas said. "Everyone has a story to tell, just like everyone needs someone to tell it to. You never know whose life your story touches; that's why every person's story is precious. It's the only way I can reconcile the minutiae of every day with the vastness of the universe without feeling that life is meaningless. I don't know what's on the other side of my last breath any better than you do, but this I know for sure: We create our own stories one memory at a time. Whether you choose to type it up and show it to the world is your business."

A blank piece of music paper formed in Jonas's mind. In an instant, staves and notes sprang to life across it. "Your story can be a building, a symphony, a painting. Or Gil's play, or Gracie's photographs. Or it can be a book about legal strategy. Think of the stories you have to tell."

"There's a lot," Eddie said.

"You bet, brother. It's the best we can do in the battle against mortality. You. Me. We're all warrior poets. d.a.m.n if I'm going down without a fight. Neither should you."

"What about you, Jonas? Besides your family, what will you leave behind?"

"My students for one thing; someone needs to teach the next generation. It's an honor. Then, there're the cases I testify at. Every time we win, someone gets. .h.i.t hard in the pocketbook. Do it enough and people will think twice before messing with someone's mind. That's my contribution to destigmatizing mental illness. I'm doing a case of legal malpractice where a colleague was wrongfully sued in connection with one of his patient's death. If I have my say I'll bankrupt the law firm that sued him. Call it my contribution to tort reform.

"And my theories and approaches to therapy with teenagers. What's happening with Gracie and Gil makes it clear there's still plenty more I need to learn. Gracie got me reading Harry Potter, which I want to mention in my chapter on adolescent development."

"And your music? How many symphonies have you composed?"

"I'm writing one right here, right now. This is our symphony. Yours and mine. We all need more than one her in our lives, people who make our dormant seeds germinate. Margo can't tend your whole garden; just like Jennie can't tend all of mine."

"I met her once, at the baseball game. I never forgot the way she looked at you. Or the way you looked at her. I remember her name, Jonas, just like I remembered Jane. Her name was Victoria."

Jonas remembered the scene as if it had just happened. "It still is."

"Thanks, Jonas."

"For what?"

"It still hurts, but having you takes the sting out of it."

64.

Friday, December 31, 2004

Victoria's initial euphoria about Gregory's survival gave way to a steadily mounting dread that his basic character might not have survived intact. His body's functions were recovering more every day, but when she considered the possibility that the banter that they shared might be compromised or forever gone, Victoria felt paralyzed. Without her talks with Jonas to keep her grounded, her mood plunged violently in the days before New Year's.

With Anna Breckenridge gone until January, the hospital just wasn't the same. Not that the fill-in doctor, Dr. Percy Walker, a descendant of the whiskey-maker, wasn't well qualified and sympathetic, but he didn't have the same investment in Gregory, or in her, that Anna did. He always seemed tentative, as if he was afraid to get families' hopes too high.

Victoria's in-laws were unexpectedly supportive. Charles, who had bonded strongly with Melinda, visited frequently. Martin's sisters sent Gregory multi-colored helium balloons with a get-well message, and they were friendlier to Victoria than they had ever been. They even canceled their Caribbean cruise, to be nearby. But nothing could counter Victoria's increasing disconnect from Martin. Victoria found little comfort in her husband, with whom she discussed the mundane-who would do what, and when-as if he were a newly hired employee.

By New Year's Eve morning, the temperature inside 1912 Rittenhouse Square South was as cold as it was outside. Victoria awoke exhausted from dreams reminding her of childhood, angry that no one had offered her help when she was Melinda's age. Stiff and sore, she felt as if she had run a marathon in cold rain. She wrapped herself in a lamb's-wool throw and, brooding silently, sipped her morning tea. She stared blankly out the window onto Rittenhouse Square, trying to stop the sickening fantasies moving through her mind: picturing herself dead and gone while an imbecilic Gregory lay strapped to a urine-soaked, stool-ridden bed in a nursing home.

Martin entered the room quietly. He came up behind Victoria and laid his hand on her shoulder tenderly.

Victoria withdrew with a jerk. "Don't do that. You know I hate to be surprised."

Since the nightmare with Melinda and Gregory, flecks of gray hair had begun to frame Martin's brow and temples. "Jesus, Vic. Every time I touch you, you act like I'm a child molester. How long is this going to go on?"

"I don't know," she whispered.

"What is it that you don't know?" Martin said.

"I don't know; I just told you. I don't even know who I am anymore. All this running around between CHOP and Pennsylvania Hospital has me exhausted. Now, I'm supposed to do it again," she said, referring to the day pa.s.s that would release Melinda that afternoon for a test run. "I want the day off. You get her."

Martin said, "We agreed to do this together. It's supposed to be a special day. Dr. Milroy said that since this is Melinda's first time seeing Gregory, both of us should be there. Now that Gregory's better-"

"I don't call wearing a bib and s...o...b..ring over himself while he eats applesauce getting better. He looks like a drooling infant."

"What is the matter with you, Vic? Look at the progress he's made in the last week. Since this whole thing began, you've been treating me like a stranger. What did I do?"

"This whole G.o.dd.a.m.n thing never should have happened. You know as well as I do that something should have been done about Melinda months ago."

"You mean that I should have done something? And what is it you think I should have done?"

"You don't know?"

"No, I don't."

"How can you not know? What kind of father are you? You're supposed to take care of things like this."

"What in G.o.d's name do you mean?"

"You spent the summer buried in spreadsheets getting your mockjury business off the ground, while Melinda hung out with that grungy kid. Aren't fathers supposed to protect their daughters?"

Martin rolled his eyes. "Excuse me for auctioning my shotgun collection. Or was I supposed to stalk her with a fish knife between my teeth and gut the first boy who came near her?"

"Your glib hyperboles won't work, Martin. I'm not some starstruck judge in Ashtabula, Ohio, presiding over slips and falls. I saw the look on your face when Melinda talked about that Todd character."

"What look?"

"The look of a man realizing for the first time that his darling daughter might have other interests in the male s.e.x besides sitting on her father's knee playing pat-a-cake."

"You know as well as I do that we had no idea of what was going on. We were both happy she had a group to hang out with."

"It never occurred to you she might get involved with someone older?"

"Of course boys would be interested in her, but from what she said in therapy, it's not like this Todd fellow was just out to put her on his trophy shelf."

"You don't know that, Martin. And about what she smoked; she sees you with your gla.s.s of wine every night. Where do you think she got the idea to try marijuana? You enable her."

"Enable her? What?" Martin slammed his fist against the couch. "Just because you don't like it, doesn't mean everyone who enjoys a gla.s.s of wine with dinner is an alcoholic. Like your father."

"That's not fair."

"But it is fair for you to asperse my parenting? It is fair for you to imply I'm a drunk? Wake up and smell the bathroom vents, Victoria. Whether you like it or not, kids experiment with dope all the time. Just because you hated marijuana doesn't mean everyone is like you. For all we know, she inherited the same sensitivity to marijuana you have. Her temperament's a h.e.l.l of a lot more like yours than mine. You both have the same mood disorder, yet you've never heard me say a word about that, have you?"

Victoria stared out the window in silence.

"Of course not," he said. "And why is that? Because I'm not built that way. I would never, ever, come down on you for being in therapy. If there's any blame, it belongs to both of us. You heard Melinda. She said she was afraid to call home, because she thought we'd yell at her."

"She was speaking to me, not you. She meant I would yell at her. How come the burden always falls on me?"

"Look, Victoria. You're making much too much out of what that Blount woman said."

"That's another thing, Martin. You stood by and let that woman rip me to shreds without one single word. How am I supposed to feel about that?"

"I apologized to you. But I'll say it again. I'm sorry. I should have said something sooner."

"So why didn't you? Why was it me that had to take all her s.h.i.t? Why didn't you protect me?"

"I should have; you're right about that, Victoria. I don't know what I was thinking. But you're not the only one who's worried sick about Gregory and Melinda. I didn't know what to do in those sessions. It's not an excuse, but like I said, I'm truly sorry. I never said I had no role in this, but how many teenage girls discuss their first crush with their fathers? Did you?"

"She should have told you about it, at least after the fact. If you'd had a better relationship with her, you would have known something was wrong and been able to get her to talk about it."

"'Get her to talk about it'? You're out of your mind!" Martin shouted. "Since when has any parent been able to get their fourteen-year-old to do anything? That's ridiculous."

Out of your mind and ridiculous resonated with every accusation Victoria had heard as a child. She raised her hand to slap him. It took every ounce of self-control to fight the urge.

Martin had finally had enough. "You'd better use your other hand if you're going to hit me, or do you want to shatter your wrist again?" Martin taunted.

"Ridiculous. Ridiculous? Don't you dare try and turn this around on me."

"Christ almighty. Is there any use talking to you? What makes you think she should have talked with me any more than you? How much of your personal life did you share with your parents?"

"My father was weak. He let my mother run roughshod over him and me just like you stood by while that Blount witch cornered me into the ropes. Like you let Melinda dump on me. It's like it always was. My father, now you. There's no man I can count on to protect me. No one."

"Are you finished yet?" Martin said unrepentantly.

"d.a.m.n you! d.a.m.n all of you," Victoria exploded in a rage that overshadowed all the good Martin brought to their marriage. "You're not a man. You're just like him."

You're just like him. You're just like him. As she said the words, Victoria began to tremble, and the room started spinning. Reeling, she staggered to the couch.

Martin looked as though she'd ripped out his heart.

And then Victoria felt the tingling she had experienced as a teenager. It spread through her body like the panic attacks she had suffered since Thanksgiving. When it centered deep in her pelvis it resonated with the l.u.s.t she felt as a teenager. For the moment the man in front of her wasn't Martin. Instead, he became her father's friend Mr. Brendel, a weak man who squandered his power and good looks through drunkenness and debauchery.

Something was very wrong with her, Victoria realized. Very wrong. For sure, Martin may have had faults, but weakness was not one of them. He had always been kind to her. How could she turn on him so viciously?

Martin said, "I'm going to Pennsylvania Hospital at noon to collect Melinda. I'll take her wherever she wants to go for lunch. Then, Melinda and I are going to see Gregory. As for you, do as you like. I'm leaving."

Martin's tone made Victoria's blood run cold. Feeling more terror than rage, she cried, "Martin, please. I didn't mean it. I-"

"We'll see about that later. This changes everything. I'm going to see my son and my daughter."

"Martin, please. I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I shouldn't have ..."

"You don't need to apologize, Victoria. Now, I know how you feel. All these years, I thought you loved me."

"No, Martin. It's not that. Please. You don't understand."

"What's there to understand?"

Victoria tried to think of something, but all she could do was beg, "Don't go, Martin. Please."

"Melinda's going to ask where you are," Martin remarked coldly. "What do you want me to tell her?"

Victoria looked at her fingers, wondering whose they were. "I don't know. Tell her whatever you want," she whispered.

"Get ahold of yourself, Victoria," Martin said icily. "I will not tolerate your upsetting my daughter."

Martin turned and left, leaving Victoria with an overwhelming sense of dej vu and a pulse rate of 150. She stared at the gazebo in the square in a trance, knowing that her outburst at Martin had little to do with him.

65.

It took Victoria an hour to stand up and get going. On the way upstairs to dress, she pa.s.sed the chair in which she sat during phone sessions with Jonas. She longed to hear his voice and make sense of what was happening.

She made it her business to be at CHOP before Martin and Melinda arrived there. At two o'clock, she settled into her chair next to Gregory, who had been able to sit up off and on for several days. Pie-eyed and somnolent, he acknowledged his mother with a weak smile.

A bleached blonde, plump-but-not-frumpy woman, whose name tag read 'Janice Raines, RPT,' entered the room and announced it was time for Gregory's first session of physical therapy. "We need to do a thorough evaluation and come up with a plan. Today's goal is to see if Gregory can support himself."

Still consumed with the ugly scene between Martin and herself, Victoria barely heard the woman. "Are you sure he's ready?" she managed.

Janice said, "We have to start somewhere. Even if he can't support his weight on his own, it'll be good for his heart to reacclimate to pumping harder. Remember, except for the few hours he's been sitting, Gregory's been lying flat for a long time; his heart hasn't had to work against gravity the way it normally does. Don't worry, Mrs. Braun. There'll be several of us to make sure he doesn't fall."

"I'd like to come with you," Victoria said.

"That's fine. Here, let's get him into the wheelchair."

Victoria scrawled a message on a get-well-card envelope, which she taped to Gregory's bed: Martin. We're in the Physical Therapy suite on the third floor. Join us. PLEASE.